'Touch Me With Your Tongue' by Sylvie Hayes-Wallance & Laura McAdams at New Works, Chicago

And Judith did slay him in the end, hard. Yet, if he was to take the form of a many-headed fiend which one would she slay first and how mighty would her blow be? Would she slit the aorta horizontally or go along its very ebb and flow and cut vertically? What about other routes? Non-Cartesian trajectories are always a pain to describe. A brutal hailstorm interrupts them mid slit. The falling ice wets and thumps, the pages turn into pulp. Some of it falls into the dirt forming a muddy paste, perfect for crafting kids masks. The uninvited circumstances puts her in a place where there isn’t much to do, she hugs her knee and buries it further into her chin while looking into the fish-eyed world inside a dewdrop. She is reminded of that time not long ago when human being –thought then as a force of nature– decided to wield not an ax but geology itself; but had nothing to slay but our own heads. But had nothing to slay but one of its many heads. The hail keeps tingling her body. One hits right in the middle finger nail. Ouch Later– we bury ourselves layer upon layer of land upon fold of skin. Here amidst flesh we take a stance and choose to remain with the immediately tactile for it’s soothing salve for that time when -- Tonight- we gravitate only to that which is an evaporating-breath away; for it’s only with my tongue that I’ve learned to discern which of these heads is it that spits. Touch me with your tongue. Touch me with your tongue.